Blood Red Wings
by night-owlvamp
Summary: My interpretation of the poem farmers bride by Charlotte Mary Mew, it is dark contain mention of rape and self harm along with death.


Disclaimer: I do not own farmers bride is a recreation created in GCSE English  
My interpretation of the poem farmers bride by Charlotte Mary Mew, it is dark contain mention of rape and self harm along with death.

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Hard cold gold. Shackles to my personal demon, gleaming mockingly at me. It never used to be like this, there was once love in those, moss green eyes, eyes that once sparkled with laughter. A happy ending? I like others wished for the impossible, unintentionally my hand slipped up my neck to my cheek still feeling the smouldering heat where his hand once lay. Where his hand abused my snow cheek. Once upon a time a blush would reside there like the pale bust of a blooming rose, only now a raised purple imprint. An imprint that shall always remain, hidden beneath the skin.

Dancing and laughing. A frozen memory locked forever in my mind. Life once full of joy, now full of bruises and blood. Though he shall not control me, he will never see the fear in my eyes as he strikes me down onto the soft mattress of our wedding bed. SICK. The feeling that always lies in my mouth, it spreads infecting my brain. I did the only thing I could think of. I ran! Flying like a hare over the white picket fence that was pitched outside our story tale house. Little did my mind process what was happening; landscape looked like smudges as salty tears burned my eyes. For I was naïve. My senses where muted, I didn't no what was happening until I felt his body on top of my own. Who was I to believe that I a young maid could escape from a farmer like him a man within in his prime? His muscles crushed me to the ground. I feel them all, his once muscular frame once made me feel safe only now I feel dirty. I went limp beneath him, I felt him smirk against my shoulder, his cocky, arrogant showing as he chuckle vibrated through my body. He believed that I had summited, now was my time to allow a small smile to play along my lips. He stood. I took the chance, took my strike. My nails embedding themselves into his soft flesh leaving angry red indents in there path. Eyes, eyes that turn to steel, turning as red as the devils himself. Why? I berated myself. Why did I not just submit? To frozen in my own fears, I did not see his muscles twitch until I felt his hand clawing in my hair as he dragged me across the muddy landscape of his fields.

That was the first and last time I tried to escape from my prison. I did not reach church town. Never did I reach my salvation. Now I stay locked away, up in the attic. The stairs betwixt us, he does not approve but he allows me this. Believing he is giving me a favour. Ha. The only favour he could place upon me is if he could be my broken body into a grave. But no he is to smart. He wants a plaything one he can mould to his will. I have seen the hunger and satisfaction in his eyes every time he brutally takes me. I must admit. He is slowly winning. He has a power I do not have, I am alone in this world, a world locked away from me due to his fear I may escape. Escape. A dream far away, but a dream never the less. I wish for a place where people do not look at me with pity or distaste when I gaze out of the window. A place where I am free, where I am not trapped. My eyes sting as my mind finally allows the truth to come flowing out, the truth I have hidden for so long. My feet move, but my mind does not register. Stumbling, I fall to the hard mattress that resides on the cold attic floor. My body shakes as the bottle of emotions finally brakes open. Tears glide down my face leaving the salty wet trails in there wake. He is my husband. My lover. My destroyer. My keeper.  
Hours, minuets or seconds may have passed but time now stands still. The house is silent; he still tends to his cattle. Foe now the only comfort I reserve is the shadows acting like my blanket hiding me from view, hiding from a world of sorrow. Eyes now flittering I submerge into the dark depths of my mind a place where life is perfect, where he is perfect.

Even in my mind I can see no wrong, if he is perfect then I must be the imperfection. I am neither pretty nor smart a body littered with scars and bruises. But not all are his, why should he be the only one who may hurt my soul? No longer do I feel the pain of his words as I have a razor that is shaper than even his touch. My only free will, my only free decision, my own self mutilation. Like a panther I cross the old dusty room blending into the shadows until my foot catches the familiar lose floorboard that hides my treasure, the only thing that knows my pain. Anger spreads its was through me as I scratch as the oak panel, once the tears blinded me only this time they fall in anger. Finally the panel lifts from its casing flying across the room till it makes contract with the wall, but the sound does not reach my ears, a focus that can only compare to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Something so small causes so much pain and joy. Lifting my companion the light hits it casting an illusion of colours, colours tinted with the red blood of my soul.

The first is drawn, only one of many more that will come. My hand glides marking the skin in poetic artwork; the razor glides across snow white skin like a conductor's baton. Love. Smile. Laughter. Dream. All words that erupt from within my mind, all words that are no longer mine, ripped away from me by his monstrous hands. He is the devil within my hell a toy. Where did the love go… where has my husband gone? The day by the lake where my back lent against his while he talked to me of life as his hand caressed through my hair. My feet slowly dipped into the water as he told me his tales, but now my feet are now dipped in a warm puddle of my own dirty blood. Why? My hand still swipes creating a symphony of my life almost reaching its end. A watery smile appears on my face as I hear the door open revelling his foot steps that continue up the stairs. He is in a tux, our wedding; he smiles and bows a hero in all words. Fump, Fump. He is coming but he is too late. I feel my soul slipping as the life leaves my eyes. I am in control. He is still my prince. But as the final creek reaches my ears the door opens, I see his eyes now no longer full of anger but of sorrow and regret.


End file.
